Suicide Grace

Woke up to cymbals crashing divine,
I couldn’t take this harshness of mine.
What strange brew percolates our mourning,
we can’t even see ourselves hurting.
These eyes are numerous and staring into me,
can they even remember when they were free?
Give in, give in and know a requiem for your pain,
before you meet your Maker and confess yourself vain.

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Dark Night On The Forest

The forest’s edge stands astride,
giving way to thoughts of obsidian tint.
Fingers of plutonian ore
swallow beast and tree
in despondent sigh.
No comfort comes from the starless sky;
the Moon is veiled in mourning.
Critters of leaf and grass lay unmoving,
fear held in dilated irises.
Those who own the night thread e’er softly,
seeking sacrifice to appease that old god, Hunger,
upon an altar of rotting leaves and cold soil.
But hark, dawn’s sword splits the blackness,
scattering the shadows away.
Respite comes with the morn’s first light,
under twinkling radiance shapes take form.
A new day strikes for the forest old.
Somewhere, not far, a bird sings indifferent.